Torque
by 0lemons0
Summary: Torque is all about Rod Redline; from his personal life to his life in the Central Intelligence Agency. With such a busy life, Rod gets to meet a whole bunch of faces with a whole bunch of different personalities. Of course, Rod enjoys some of the cars he meets, but when you're a spy, you get used to meeting cars you'll never want to see again. But that's all part of the 'charm'.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

"That's him," a little monocle wearing car said. His German accent haunted secret agents everywhere. A voice wanted internationally doesn't settle well in the pit of their gas tanks. He was a Zundapp Janus who shut his grey eyes and lifted up on his front axles dominantly. His upper lip lifted into a snarl, revealing his gnarly gapped teeth, and took in a breath that whipped around the gaps, "He's the one."

He started to back up and turn away from the catch of the day his henchmen brought in that night, hard to tell what he was actually about to do next. All of the cars were in a small 'abandoned' industrial building that Professor Z likes to call his lair away from lair. The metal on the outside was rusting at an alarming rate; and the rotting metal smell didn't seem to be coming from the walls of the boathouse, but seeping through the old thin windows - the metal of old cars rotting away in there. But it's not like the car who actually owned it was missing anything. Professor Z took care of him a while back. His parts were somewhere in the pile of dead tattle-tale cars behind the captured agent. His body was most likely the mysterious liquid that slowly crept from under the pile, since it's been so long and his metal must have been starting to liquefy at that time. Professor Z stole it years before when the plan to sabotage the World Grand Prix was still only a newborn. He rearranged some of the hardware and machinery, turning them into new hardware and machinery. As crazy as the man's morals were (and still are) the man knew a lot more than basic physics and chemistry.

His bitter lemon team of Pacers and Gremlins, who were about as appealing as the death behind the agent, narrowed their eyes with a smirk upon their chapped lips. The unfortunate muscle car was starting to tremble on the machine he was booted to, feeling his rpms beginning to rise like a volcano about to erupt. The agent, a shiny deep blue with a long black stripe running down his entire body; and a stripe above that one that was even thinner, was angry. The agent's pupils constricted tightly, able to feel his cobalt irises being stretched. His teeth clenched together as if a bomb were going to go off if they separated. Spies are never allowed to show their emotions. At least their real ones anyway. They're trained hard to master this skill, which takes years of perfecting, but the brawny agent was running out of options.

"Roger that, Professor Z," a faded orange Gremlin replied. He pointed a television camera at the muscle car, snarling in the same way the Janus was, but he was missing teeth. The muscle car raised on his aching axles with the tone of his voice growing as well, "NO."

The muscle car already knew it wasn't just a camera. Clumsy, clumsy lemons. They didn't know how to keep anything quiet for a couple of hours. Take their engines as an example. Too bad the agent overheard on the ship that the camera was actually an electromagnetic pulse emitter. Professor Z never appreciated the simple things. He always needed to complicate everything while making sure someone else's life was being gambled in the process.

The professor's brake lights flashed on as he stopped by the phone, "Yes, sir. We believe the infiltrator has passed along sensitive information."

The voice on the other end growled out of the speaker, muffled to the agent busy trying to convince the lemons that he was merely taking more of the details of the that one photo, out of all the photos that were being presented to him; not slipping from nerves.

"You tell Agent Torque that these are, no doubt, his last moments on his treads," the mysterious voice demanded, "Do away with him."

"I will take care of it before any damage can be done," the professor stepped on a switch and the phone retreated into its setting. He readjusted on his axles, turning back to the agent, with an unreadable expression. He spoke to everyone in the room, keeping his cold, unfeeling eyes on the doomed car, "The project is still on schedule," he rolled closer to the agent, stopping at the camera and slapping away the Gremlin's tire from the switch making it his own territory, "You will find the second agent," the pupil behind his monocle pulsed, focusing, enjoying the pain the muscle car was receiving; enjoying the pained expression on the face of a car who he felt never actually experienced a single day that was truly painful in his life, "And kill him."

The professor flicked the switch on the camera, letting its pulses hit the agent at its highest power. The pulses in the camera became stronger and stronger, becoming louder and louder as the agent felt himself starting to cook from the inside out. Falling apart. Burning. Melting. He had nothing else to do but watch with his eyes, the last part of him that was still working, his life flashing before him. The image of Professor Z was being blocked by the misty silver screen that appeared playing the agent's life, but the professor's image was still there behind the screen when the agent squinted hard enough. The professor watched as the agent's eyes shifted around drowsily, knowing exactly what he was seeing even though it wasn't actually there for the other cars in the room; because he's murdered many times in the past, and has been close enough to stare death right in the face to see his own life flash before his eyes as well.

But this was a different kind of movie for the agent. It wasn't the coming attraction a car usually gets when they _almost_ die. It was the full picture. The entire feature presentation.

And he remembered it so clearly.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1 - "Just a City Boy, Born and Raised in South Detroit"**

The muscle car could barely see past his front bumper because of the blinding fog. His treads peeled off the asphalt as his tires rolled down the empty city street - still wet from the rain. The dying stoplight hummed with his engine in the bizarre silence while the warm lights coming from inside the apartment buildings were distorted from the lingering cloud.

Detroit, where cars were inside by the time the sun set, guns, drugs; just like in the movies. Every day that passed, it felt just like those movies for him. There are good parts and bad parts everywhere, but one of the truest things he could say was that there hasn't been a dull moment in the area of Detroit he lived in; and he couldn't see himself growing up anywhere else. Something about the thrill never got old.

"EMPTY YOUR TRUNK," a man's voice echoed from an alley in the distance. The muscle car's attention on the fog quickly faded, "I SAID GIMMIE WHAT'S IN YOUR TRUNK."

His engine sank, never hearing such an angry voice demand something from inside a trunk. His eyes shot around, widened by the shock, desperately looking for where the voice was coming from.

"Please! Please, I'm going to have a baby!" another voice echoed. The muscle car quickly rolled over to the alley where he heard the voices. He squinted and saw some car's taillights in the distance with her shape only a silhouette in the angered man's high beams.

"THAT DOESN'T STOP YOUR TRUNK FROM OPENING," he rolled closer to her. The beam of his headlights reflected off of the woman's body and onto a gun pointed directly at her doors. The muscle car zipped behind a bunch of trashcans, not wanting the light to touch any part of him.

"You have to understand!" the woman continued to beg, "I've been waiting so long for a baby! Don't hurt me!"

"YOU'RE GONNA BE DYING IN FIVE SECONDS IF YOU DON'T OPEN IT."

The woman trembled violently, paralyzed by the fear of the gun's barrel.

"One."

"Oh god, no!" she fell on her axles, her tires sprawling out.

"Two," the man rolled closer, pressing the gun on her door now.

"I-I-," she could no longer speak, but the two tears that fell from her windshield spoke a thousand words. The muscle car opened his mouth, wanting to say something. He furrowed his eyelids as he watching the two cars, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't get them both shot.

"THREE," he pressed harder, making a dent.

The woman shrieked, "MY BABY!"

"I WOULD OPEN THAT TRUNK IF I WERE YOU," he pulled the gun back and slammed it into her door again, "FOUR."

The muscle car clenched his teeth and revved hard, "PUT THE GUN DOW-"

A harsh flash lit up the alley as the sound of a gunshot followed and echoed farther than the voices. The brave car flinched and his eyes shut tightly. A warm liquid sprayed all over him and the walls of the alley. He pulled his lips in. It stuck to his tires; he lifted one of his front tires and it was slightly harder to peel off of the asphalt than the rain water. He opened his eyes slowly and in the man's headlights was the same woman with her tires completely spread out. A red, 2003 Ford Taurus that must have been vibrant once. She didn't look so vibrant with a hole through her door and oil splattered all over her though; and the muscle car couldn't help but stare.

She was dead. She was definitely dead. She didn't bob up and down like a breathing car. She was dead. She didn't scream anymore, nor was her voice ever going to be heard again. She was dead. Not only was she dead, but her baby was dead. Not only were they dead, but the man she was going to drive home to was about to feel dead when he heard the news. One gunshot. Three dead. Only one, single gunshot.

The muscle car looked up at the gunman. His eyes shook a little, "You really killed her, huh?"

He was finally about to get a look at him. He was a dark blue car with long fins. He couldn't tell exactly what kind of car he was, but those fins weren't going to be forgotten. The gunman quickly pointed the gun up at the muscle car, but he didn't move. He didn't flinch, he didn't squeal, he just stared at the object. It looked so innocent; like a son who was only doing what his father told him to do; shoot her, just shoot the woman, good, and now shoot him.

The muscle car's breath slipped through his separated lips, "What..was in her trunk?"

"Hell if I know, kid," he pulled back the gun's hammer, setting the next bullet up for a shot. The gunman's lips curled up into a devious smile and he chuckled lightly.

The sound of police sirens wailed into the alley, echoing from the other direction now. The gunman's eyes widened up and he put his gun away, starting his engine, "You be a good boy and go home now," and the man sped out of the alley and made a right turn. Soon after, a line of police cars zoomed by the alley's entrance, following the gunman's trail. One of the cops, which seemed slower than the rest, huffed, "Guys..," he spoke into his radio, "Guys, headquarters said we lost 'em."

The muscle car blinked, _"How could you lose him?"_

The police car took in a deep breath, "Let's just go back..we'll get him another day..," he reversed and did a three-point turn back the way the group of police cars came.

_"Another day?_" the muscle car thought to himself,_ "You're just going to leave him out there?"_

He turned to the woman and frowned softly, rolling up to her, and putting a tire on her body. He felt around, feeling the warmth by the wound, and the cold farther away from it. He looked over to her trunk and then up and around the alley to see if anyone was watching.

_"No, you moron, don't touch her, she's dead,"_ he thought._ "Fine, but whatever is in there, you put it back."_

He rolled over to her trunk and he opened it up with his tire. He turned on his headlights and looked around the dark trunk and saw nothing but her small wallet. He stretched his tire into it and pulled it out. After, he opened it up and quickly looked in every pocket. No credit cards, but the brand card was still in one of the card pockets. The only cash and change in the wallet was $1.75, which must have been the change from where she was coming from.

_"She must have just bought this,"_ he continued. He spotted her identification and paused. He squinted at it.

**EVELYN ROADBEE**

**1627 PALACE STREET**

**DETROIT, MICHIGAN, 48221**

She was smiling in her picture. She looked so happy; how great is it to not know when? He nodded to himself and remembered her address, putting her identification back into her wallet, and putting her wallet back into her trunk. He shut her trunk and rinsed his tires in a puddle nearby. He took one last glance at Evelyn and pulled in his bottom lip, _"Sleep well.."_

Ten minutes later, he arrived at her front door. He looked up at the golden numbers **1627 **and then at the rest of the home. He bit the inside of his mouth, looking up at the small, white, one floor, Cape Cod style house. One window sat on each side of the chestnut door and lights glowed from the inside just like the apartment buildings by the alley. The muscle car inhaled, lifting up on his axles a little to present himself better, and he knocked on the door.

A few moments after, the door opened, revealing a gray 1999 Ford Explorer, "Honey?"

He raised a lid at the muscle car's appearance, but his expression quickly dropped when he realized oily blood was sprayed all over him, "Wh-Who are you?"

"My name is Rod," the muscle car said, "And I want you to know that he never got to five."


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 - "Don't Drop the Soap"**

Rod came rolling from the street to a light yellow house with two floors and a gray roof. He went to put his tire on the door, but a foul stench made him cringe. He looked down at his hood, Evelyn's oily blood still spread all over him. His eyelids squinted from the odor starting to tease his eyes, "Nn..," he pressed his hood into the front door, opening it slowly. He stopped, making sure no one was awake, pulling in his lips, and rolling inside.

Rod's tires gently caressed the wooden floor, trying to be as silent as possible. He hoped that his mother's blown out scented candles would hold off his scent until morning, but the oil was already cooled by now, and its faint scent in the air was just mixing with Evelyn's blood; a flowery, metallic scent that matched Evelyn's perfume mixed with her blood back at the murder site. Rod shook his hood and his eyes focused on the ramp to the second floor. The guilt from the sight, the curdled blood, the sound of the gunshot, it was all starting to come back to him, and it made him quake inside.

_"I could have stopped him,"_ his mind complained._ "I could have been the one that was shot."_

He rolled up the ramp and straight into the bathroom, not even taking a second to settle in his room. He shut the door quietly, closing his eyes. He backed away from the door and felt around for the sink with his tires until he felt a light thud. He then brought his other tire up on the sink and positioned himself in front of the mirror. He exhaled and opened his eyes cautiously into a widened expression. He saw the way he looked in front of her husband. Evelyn's blood was stuck in his grille. Evelyn's blood was stuck in his hood scoop. Evelyn's blood was around his lips. Evelyn's blood was on his mirrors. Evelyn's blood was all over. His breathing started to become faster, looking down at his tires and pulling them away from the sink fast, leaving bloody tread marks on the clean, white porcelain. A muffled croaking noise escaped from his throat, wanting to scream, but knowing he couldn't because of his parents in the room across the hall. He felt dirty; physically and mentally. He could have stopped every bit of blood that came out of her, not to mention her baby, and if he stopped that, his mind wouldn't have felt so dirty either.

_"I can't take it anymore."_

He stumbled over to the shower, pulling back the curtains and forcing the water on. He jumped into the tub and started to shake his body under the water violently. The image of the gunman started to rip through his thoughts again, _"You animal, you had him, you had him right there,"_ he grabbed the bar of soap, _"You could have told the cop his description. You could have at least given him that much."_

Rod shuts his eyes tightly and slapped his tire over his mouth, stuffing the soap into it,_ "Don't you scream. You had your chance to scream, but you chose to let her die."_

The bitter taste stung his tongue, making it tender and very swollen,_ "What the hell did you think was going to happen? That he was just going to let her go after she saw his face?"_

Rod shook his hood 'no',_ "This will teach you to wanna open your mouth,"_ he bit down on the soap, feeling it squeeze between his teeth and shape itself around them. An army of bubbles started to seep out from between his lips, _"Open your mouth. Tell the cop."_

Rod fought his instincts, forcing them to keep the soap in his mouth, _"Is the taste out of your mouth yet?"_

He could feel his entire front starting to heat up from his emotions. His eyes pressed against the glass of his windshield as they swelled with tears. He looked down at Evelyn's blood rushing down to the drain and swirling around it, making the sight of her exploding in front of him start to come back, _"Go on. Do it. Get it out of your eyes now."_

Rod spat the soap out of his mouth, bubble flying around and dripping with his spit. The bar slid around the drain with her blood, but Rod wasn't giving up. His tire chased after it, catching it, and immediately slapping the bar of soap against his windshield. The soap dripped down to where the glass of his windshield met his hood, and started to attack at his eyes. He could feel the soap drying and boiling his irises, _"You're never gonna think about it again, alright?"_

Rod gasped hard from the pain, making some of the soap still stuck between his teeth travel to his throat and him having no choice but to swallow it. He felt his entire throat kicking and screaming. He could feel his eyes melting out of his windshield, even though they weren't even moving,_ "Alright you had enough. Now get that gunshot out from ringing in your head."_

Rod pulled the soap from his eyes and immediately started to rinse them under the shower head. He already knew, without having to look back in that mirror, that his eyes were as bloodshot as they could possibly get. He tried to think of ways to get the sound of the gun out of his head, but looking down at the soap, he knew that it wasn't going to do anything for him. It's not like it would have stung the sound away, nor did the soap actually wash away the taste of Evelyn's blood or wash away the sight of it in his mind. The water pounded on his roof and the tub around him like a million gunshots being fired at the same time. So, how could he get it out of his mind?

_"You're gonna have to get over this eventually."_

_"You keep telling me to stick this soap in places it doesn't belong."_

_"You don't have to listen to me."_

_"But I need you or I'll do something stupid. You're the only person who knows I saw his face."_

_"Well, you didn't tell the cop his description and you had me, didn't you? That was pretty stupid."_

_"You know what I mean, c'mon. Help me. HELP ME."_

_"C'mon..time heals all wounds, right Rod?"_

_"No, NOT EVELYN'S WOUNDS."_

He couldn't get it out of his mind no matter how much he spoke to himself in it.

A soft knocking vibrated the door, as an even softer voice spoke, "Rod, you just got home?"

He quickly turned the water off, taking a moment to pull himself together, "Yeah, mom.."

"Rod, it's really late.."

His tire squeaked against the tub as he struggled to get out of it, "Yeah, sorry.."

"Well, you missed the good news! I didn't want to wait until tomorrow morning anyway."

He sighed and looked over at the door, blinking more than usual from the burning sensation still in his eyes, "Mm?"

"How does 'Margarita' sound?"

Rod hummed, "Sounds good right about now.."

"No! As a name!"

He furrowed his eyelids. He reached up to grab a towel, putting it over his face right after.

Rod's mother giggled from his silence, "You're going to have a sister!"

Rod paused, completely frozen from his mother's words, _"You're going to have a sister!"_

He pulled the towel down his face, revealing a dropped expression and a dried hood. His thoughts were quiet. He no longer heard the wind drifting through the buildings outside, moving the fog around where he watched Evelyn die. He no longer felt the warmth of her blood clinging onto him like ducklings to their mother. He no longer heard the sound of the gunman's voice or his gunshot. All he was able to hear now was his mother's cheerful voice echoing around him, _"You're going to have a sister!"_

He still knew that what happened, happened. It would never be undone. But what Rod learned that night, was that a bad day's lessons don't always finish when one situation in that day is over; that even when one is going through hell, it isn't the end.

Most importantly, even in the darkest of thoughts, a simple dose of innocence, can be more powerful than infinite doses of evil.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 - "The New One and the Reunion"**

"...and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God indivisible with liberty, and justice for all," Rod mumbled to himself. He brought his tire up and out, saluting the small star spangled banner pinned to the cork board in his dorm.

The walls were a clean, cream color which complimented the white tile floor. A chestnut writing desk stood proudly against a wall, ready to be of assistance as a golden lamp that sat off to the side slept through the morning's daylight. Next to the desk, a tall bookcase - which matched his desk - filled with books from his training served as a reminder every single day that Rod's efforts were worth it. The bed, however, wasn't much. It was a cot, but more "decorated" than ones in the army. It was clean, it looked fresh, but it still didn't seem to be a permanent area to rest, just like any other cot. One thing was for sure - at least it wasn't Detroit.

He took in a deep breath as his eyes traveled to the windows. He exhaled with a smile and rolled towards them, throwing the white, slightly transparent curtains away from his view and smiling at the view of the CIA's lawn in front of him.

Another mission well done, Redline, he thought to himself. He had just come out of his first deep sleep in weeks. Missions always took a toll on agents, which is why spies usually don't work alone even though it's meant to appear that way. However, not every mission is the same, and sometimes a spy had to do what a spy had to do; and if it meant working alone, it meant working alone.

A knock was heard on the door, along with a peppy, young adult male's voice, "Hey! Mr. Redline! I'm ready for the tour!"

Rod's eyes widened slightly, and quickly lowered. He sighed, "Dolan.."

The knocking was heard again, but faster, "Come on! Open up! Come on!"

Rod reversed and turned over to the door, "What's the magic phrase?"

"Pleeeeease Mr. Spy Guy?"

Rod chuckled to himself, muttering, "I've taught you well."

He opened his door for the young trainee. He rose on his axles and flashed the young man a very professional smile, "So you want a tour, huh?"

The tiny 2008 Fiat 500's teeth were a brighter white than his paint job, "Yeah! Yeah!"

Rod stretched out his axle and patted him on the fender, "Some other time," he said, "Michelle is assigning me a new partner today."

Dolan's expression was lulled away by his reply, "Oh..well..alright, Mr. Spy Guy," he nodded, "Some other time, like you said," he revved up and his smile returned again, "See ya later!"

And there he went, zipping down the hall and back into the lobby. Rod shook his hood, "Someone needs more training in the emotions department.."

Suddenly the status bar under his hood scoop lit up to get his attention. Rod's eyes shot over to it.

**Incoming Call - Michelle Helfen**

When he saw the name, he immediately picked up. He shut the door to his room and he started to drive down the hall slowly, to not catch up to Dolan and to pay attention to what she wanted.

"Micheeeeeelle, how ya doin'?" Rod asked.

"Agent Redline - ugh - speaking of that we need to get you an undercover name because if you ever get caught one day, you're gonna be sorry for using your real last na-"

"I'm not changing anything," Rod replied, "Because I'm never going to get caught. I didn't spend all that time in training, making sure everything was crystal clear, to get caught."

"As your secretary-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. It's your job to make sure everything is working like a well-oiled machine. I got you."

"That wasn't what I was going to say, Redline."

"Yeah, yeah, anyway - what were you saying?"

"As I was saying...we spoke before about assigning you a new partner and-"

"Yep, on my way now," he stopped at the end of the hall to look both ways, making sure he wasn't going to crash into anyone.

Michelle's tone started to deepen a bit, "Would you let me finish? Goodness, your mouth is going to get you into a lot of trouble one day."

The lobby was huge. The ceiling was a giant dome of bulletproof frosted glass and the sunlight did most of the lightning work. The floors were while tiles, like most of the facility, and a bunch of sleek cars zipped here and there, all looking as if they had some place to be. Some of the agents looked pleased, while others looked extremely tired and stressed. The soft sounds of voices conversing with each other filled the air along with the typing and paper shuffling of the secretaries in the center of the lobby at large circular desk. Rod continued into the lobby when he saw his way was clear and rolled right up to the desk without his tires making a sound.

"You might want to work on your mouth-," she heard her own voice echoing behind her and into her own communicator at the desk. She furrowed her eyelids looking down at it.

"And you might want to work on your attentiveness," Rod said behind her. Michelle jumped up, her front bumper hitting the desk and knocking over a couple of pens that were undisturbed before Rod showed up. He stretched his axle over and hung up the communicator for her, "So, who'd you say was gonna get caught one day?"

The light pink 2008 Volkswagen Tiguan looked up at Rod with tired grey eyes, "Very funny."

Rod's eyes softened slightly when he saw that his secretary didn't seem so hot, "Hey, you good?"

"Yeah," she sighed. She looked over at the stack of papers on her desk and put her tires around them. She picked them up and hit them against her desk to straighten them out, "Just trying to get all of this work done before we move back to DC."

Rod nodded his hood, "I know, I know. I miss the dorms over there."

Michelle gave him a look.

"What?" Rod asked. "Free refills in the cafeteria over there."

She rolled her eyes up at him, "About your partner..you already know that your last one has gone onto the dark side."

"Ambrogio Quattrocchi," Rod's eyes became stone cold. "Yeah."

Michelle smirked at the change in his expression, "You know your next mission is to get him back, right? With the help of your new partner, of course."

Rod raised a lid, "But the CIA got rid of him."

"He was your friend."

Rod's eyes narrowed, "So?"

"So..who on earth likes when their friends turn over a new leaf that isn't so good?"

Rod turned away a bit. His voice sounded like gravel scraping against a rotting corpse, "I work alone."

He reversed from the desk and a small voice yelped. He felt his rear tap against the body of another car. Rod's eyes widened and he turned for the car behind him, looking at her, "Oh, excuse-"

She was a 2005 BMW 330i. The first thing Rod noticed about her was the brown in her eyes; how it didn't look like any other kind of brown eyes he'd ever seen. They weren't dark and muddy. That's how he usually saw brown eyes, considering how blue his were. No, her eyes were dark and rich like the finest of dark chocolates. The color of her paint made her curves very sleek. She wore a dark, but not quite black, grey color. The sunlight from the dome made the light glitter in her pain sparkle.

He couldn't help but smile at her.

"Hey," Rod said, "Sorry about that."

The BMW's shocked expression dropped into that of a serious one, "Hm," she glared at him, locking her eyes right onto his, "Careful next time."

She had a bit of a Hispanic accent in her throat. Michelle leaned over on her axles to see who Rod was speaking to, "Oh! Rod! I'd like you to meet Miss. Anevangeline Beechwood, whose cover name is Agent Indigo."

"Huh?" Rod looked at Michelle, "Who?"

"You can call me Angie," the BMW said, "It's easier for most people."

"Well, I'm Rod. What are you here for, Ange?"

"Angie," she said, "Don't call me Ange. And I'm here because Michelle told me I was being assigned a partner today."

Rod's lips spread a bit and the bottom of his left eyelid twitched a little, "What did you just say?"

Michelle smiled, "Anevangeline will be working with you on your missions from now on. You know, instead of Ambrogio, considering you like to compete with him a lot."

He raised his tire and pointed to Angie, "And you think I wouldn't compete with her?"

"Well, super spy," Angie chimed in, "First step to getting stronger is admitting you have competition," she smirked. She rolled around him, staring at the muscle car's body, "You looked much stronger when I was rolling over here."

Rod looked at her, "You say that as if-"

"Now, Rod," Michelle interrupted, "Anevangeline is a hurricane in all kinds of weather."

Angie smiled proudly, "Thank you."

"And I think you'll enjoy her company on your missions," Michelle continued, "She might even be able to teach you a few new things."

"As I'll be able to teach her some things as well," he replied, raising a lid at Angie.

"Before your testosterone rises to an even more dangerous level," Angie chuckled to herself, "Why don't you take a few deep breaths?"

"I might have to."

"So what's your cover name?"

"I don't have one."

Angie gave him a look of disgust, "You're kidding."

Suddenly a loud bash from the front doors of the agency was heard and they flew open. Two big, raven black Land Rovers were pulling a very beat up 2004 silver Maserati GranTurismo. On his fenders were two golden modifications that led from the end of his fenders to a little less than half of his front bumper on each side; a statement of wealth, but it wasn't working anymore. Not in his condition anyway.

He struggled in the grip of the Land Rovers, "GET YOUR FILTHY TIRES OFF OF ME THIS INSTANT," he revved, "I WORK HERE."

That he did.

Rod gasped, "Ambrogio!"

Michelle had no words for the fallen agent. She was too shocked, but at least Rod and Angie weren't going to risk their lives trying to get him, she thought. That mission was cancelled. Angie, however, didn't know who he was, and thought of him as just another injured agent with too much pride to be helped back into the facility. Rod wasted no time. He zipped over to the agent, "Ambrogio, what happened to you?"

"And he said he didn't care about him," Michelle mumbled to Angie, which made Angie have a sudden interest.

Ambrogio just looked up at Rod with defeated eyes. He had a busted lip, one of his modifications was hanging off slightly, and he had a black eye that kept squinting at Rod. He too had brown eyes; the dark and muddy kind. His doors were all dented up, along with pretty much his entire front, with tread marks from cars that must have been beating him with no mercy at all. His engine was running with a stutter too.

"Who did this to you?" Rod asked, concerned.

"We're throwing him in interrogation," one of the Land Rovers said.

"Talk to him in there," the other said.

"But he's an agent here!"

Rod went to pull him away, but both Land Rovers pulled Ambrogio back, making him cringe and moan under his breath. The Land Rover that spoke first looked down at the broken spy with deadly eyes, "Not anymore."

Rod completely forgot that his 'friend' wasn't on good terms with the CIA anymore. He was too focused on the fact that he had a woman for a partner now. The Land Rovers dragged the agent away down into one of the halls. An eerie silence fell over the agency. They all heard about Ambrogio; and Rod seemed to be the only one who didn't get the memo. He didn't move from his spot as Ambrogio was being dragged away. He just turned to Michelle, looking at her eyes. She nodded to him, knowing what he was saying to her without even speaking to her; and Rod went off to follow the Land Rovers.

Angie was so confused. She looked at Michelle, "Should I-"

"You're his partner," Michelle said, "You two are connected now. With your lives."

Angie swallowed hard, not realizing what she was getting herself into. She revved herself up and rolled after Rod. Michelle smiled at her taillights, whispering to herself, "Keep him safe."

The Land Rovers opened up a steel door with the swipe of a card and practically threw Ambrogio in. Rod didn't even hesitate to let himself in as well, considering one of the Land Rovers told him that he would be able to speak to him. The door slammed shut before Angie could make it inside though. She flinched back at the sound of the slam, not expecting it in the moment. Right next to the door was a window showing the inside of the room from the outside, which on the inside only looked like a mirror to the agents and Land Rovers; made so that people would be able to observe on the outside. They all knew it was a window though and so did the smarter subjects that spies and other CIA officers would bring in for questioning.

There was a steel table with chains in the middle of the room that the Land Rovers were attaching Ambrogio to. Rod stood off to the side, waiting for them to finish. The walls were a dull yellow, which is a color known to induce fear. To a degree, it helped keep the subjects dominated. The rest of the work needed to be done by the interrogator. How tough could he be? How well can he hold back his feelings? How well can he not take things personally? How well was he prepared to be insulted? How well was he prepared to speak to a person who might just act like a wall and say nothing? The interrogator never knew what was coming to him. Every subject reacted differently. If the interrogator didn't set his place within the first few minutes of questioning, if he made the subject feel comfortable in the slightest bit, he failed and the subject won. Once an interrogator gives up his dominance for a second, everything falls apart. Angie liked to think of it as a dance, as she watched the cars speaking; one must lead the other.

Ambrogio panted, holding back the pain as best as he could. He stared at himself in the mirror, seeing the damage for the first time himself. That was another technique. Making the subject feel like he was being watched - by himself. He looked at each of the Land Rovers, better with his good eye.

"So," he said, "Which one of you is going to be asking me things?"

He started to brush himself off with his tires, as if it made him look cleaner. One of the Land Rovers when to speak, but Rod immediately spoke up, "I will."

"Ah," he scoffed, "They picked one of the best in the business."

Angie looked over to the side of the window where a set of headphones were permanently plugged into the wall. She took them and put them on, hearing the voices inside of the room.

"This isn't the time to be a smart ass," Rod snapped.

"Ironic," Ambrogio replied. "Coming from you."

"Who did this?"

"Well, where do I start? Look at me."

"From the damn beginning."

"I was caught, obviously," Ambrogio said, looking right into Rod's eyes so he knew that he wasn't fibbing, "And I would have gotten away with the information if you had your communicator repaired. You would have known that I was in trouble."

Rod slammed his tire on the table, "Where was I going to fix my communicator in the middle of the mission?"

Ambrogio brought his tires up on the table, getting in Rod's face. The chains on his axles tightened up, "It was broken _before_ the mission and you know it."

Rod shook his hood, "Never mind, just tell me who it was that did this."

"I can't tell you that."

"Why not?"

"Because I can only tell you that the cars that did this to me are useless to go after. They're not going to do anything. You can capture them. You can question them," he reversed off of the table and settled back down, the chains relaxing, "But those cars, those guys, they're a dime a dozen. They won't talk because they know if you kill them or if you hold them here, there are so many more, who know the exact same things, who are succeeding in their missions."

"Whose side are you on, dammit?" Rod clenched his teeth. All he wanted was a description of anything really.

The room he was in, if he was even in a building when he was beaten up, could give off valuable information.

"Funny," Ambrogio said, gesturing over to Rod, "Because with the way you 'worked' with me on missions, I could ask you the same thing. Just ask relevant questions."

"Were you outside or inside?"

"Inside."

"How many cars were beating you?"

Ambrogio looked past Rod at his reflection, trying to remember. He looked back to Rod, "I think three. Maybe even four if there was a guy behind me."

"And did they speak to you?"

"Of course," he rolled his eyes, "They did their share of interrogating just like this," he sucked at his teeth, "And to be honest," his eyes rolled from Land Rover to Land Rover, then back to Rod, "I'm getting sick of being treated like those cars," he left a long pause, letting it sink into Rod, "And you're not going to get another word out of me until you unchain me from this desk."

Rod thought about it, biting the inside of his cheek as he did, pursing his lips too. Ambrogio just kept his stare, right in his eyes, "Un. Chain. Me."

The Land Rovers looked over to Rod and he was able to feel their stare. He nodded, giving the okay to free Ambrogio. They rolled over and after a few moments of the sound of jingling chains, they unlocked Ambrogio, who was then able to stretch out his tires. He cleared his throat, "Now I can start the story time," he pulled his lips in and slid his tongue against them, stopping on the spot that was split open from the beating, "It all ended with a game of poker."


End file.
